


Ocean Beach

by Heisey



Category: Daredevil (Comics), Daredevil (TV)
Genre: Addiction and recovery, Avocados, F/M, Fluff, Matt Murdock Appreciation, Matt Murdock Goes to California, Not Canon Compliant, Post-COVID-19, Private Investigator, adult film industry, karedevil - Freeform, porn industry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-12
Updated: 2020-09-12
Packaged: 2021-03-06 16:22:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,186
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26431858
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Heisey/pseuds/Heisey
Summary: This is a (mostly) lighthearted little tale with a few serious moments (it’s a Daredevil story, after all). Two years after Karen left for California, Matt travels to San Diego in search of her. He finds a private investigator, Mara MacKenzie, in the Ocean Beach neighborhood and hires her to help him in his search. She narrates the story. A one-shot.
Relationships: Matt Murdock & Franklin "Foggy" Nelson & Karen Page, Matt Murdock & Original Female Character(s), Matt Murdock/Karen Page
Comments: 2
Kudos: 12





	Ocean Beach

The first thing I noticed about the guy walking toward me on that cloudy June day was his round, red-tinted sunglasses. Dude, haven’t you ever heard of the “June gloom” at the beach? Today, Ocean Beach was even more gloomy than usual for this time of year. Then something else about him registered in my (admittedly slow on the uptake) brain: the long white cane, tipped in red. The dude was blind. Oh. Shit. Well, _that_ sucked. For him, I mean. 

I checked him out as he walked toward me, along the sidewalk. That was something I would _never_ do if the guy could see me. (And if you believe that, there’s a bridge to Coronado I’d like to sell you). So – dark brown hair, with a hint of red where the light hit it; medium-sized nose, not too big, but with a couple of bumps (what’s up with that?); luscious lips, would be better if he was smiling instead of frowning; cute little dimple in his chin under the stubble; muscles visible under a long-sleeved T-shirt. Dude definitely works out. I approved.

He made his way down the sidewalk, swinging and tapping the cane, and stopped in front of the cottage that serves as both my home and my office. Then he turned up the walk and headed for the front porch. Somehow he found the sign next to the stairs and ran a hand over it. Sorry, no Braille. I’m probably in violation of some law or other because of that. He stood there for a moment, looking uncertain, until I finally caught up with him.

“Looking for me?” I asked, then cringed. Good one, MacKenzie. Way to put your foot in it. 

He didn’t seem to notice my embarrassment. Or maybe he did, but he was used to idiots like me. “If you’re Mara MacKenzie, the private investigator, I am,” he said. (Nice voice, not sure about the New York accent). He didn’t offer to shake hands, and neither did I. No one does, these days. Not since the virus.

“I am,” I admitted. “Want to come in?”

He nodded. I stood next to him so he could grab hold of my arm (I read somewhere that’s the right way to do it), and he followed me into the cottage. “Have a seat on the couch,” I said, gesturing toward it before I realized my mistake. “Uh, it’s to your left, about six feet.”

He smiled (he had a lovely smile, much better than the frown) and said, “No problem. I’ll find it.” And find it he did. I caught a glimpse of him walking away from me, toward the couch. Nice ass, too.

“Coffee?” I asked.

He nodded. “Sure.”

“How do you take it?”

“Black, no sugar.”

Of course he did. Cream and sugar probably were a pain in the ass for him to deal with.

“Be right back. Make yourself at home.” I headed to the kitchen and fired up the coffeemaker. It took a few minutes to do its thing. When it was done, I filled two mugs, added milk to mine, and brought them to the living room. I set his down on the coffee table in front of him and said, “It’s on the table, right in front of you.”

“Thanks,” he said, then ran his hand carefully over the surface of the table until he found the mug. He raised it to his lips and drank.

When he set the mug down, I asked, “What can I do for you?”

“My name is Matt Murdock,” he replied. “I’m an attorney in New York.” He reached into his pocket, pulled out his wallet, and extracted a business card. I took it from him and glanced at it. It was in print and Braille. Very classy.

“What brings you to not-so-sunny San Diego?”

“I recently learned a former employee of our firm came here after she left. I have reason to believe she may be in trouble. I want to find her and help her, if I can.”

“Seems like you’re going to a lot of trouble for a former employee,” I observed.

Murdock got a shifty look on his face, as if he was trying to come up with a story, but then he apparently decided to come clean. “She was also my girlfriend.”

Uh-oh. This was not good. I’d seen my share – more than my share – of men looking for current or former spouses or girlfriends. The vast majority of them were creeps. There was no reason a blind guy couldn’t be one of them. But I wasn’t getting the usual creepy, controlling vibe from him. I decided to give him the benefit of the doubt, for now. Until he gave me a reason not to.

“What if you find her and she’s OK? Or she doesn’t want your help?”

His face fell. “Then I get on a plane and go back to New York.”

OK, he just passed the first test. If he was telling the truth. “So tell me what I need to know.”

“Her name is Karen Page.” He got out his wallet again, took out a photo with one of its corners clipped, and handed it to me. “This is the most recent photo I have. It’s from about two years ago, just before she . . . left.”

“And that was because of – ?”

“We had a . . . disagreement.”

“About?”

“I’d rather not say. And it isn’t relevant to finding her.”

Maybe, maybe not. “I’ll take your word for it, for now,” I told him, “but if I decide it’s relevant, you need to tell me, or I walk. Understood?”

He nodded.

“Why do you think she’s here, in San Diego?”

“One of our clients deals in, uh, adult merchandise. A few days ago, he told my law partner he thought he’d seen Karen on the cover of one of the films he was selling. My partner watched it – he refused to describe it to me, said it was strictly ‘need to know’ – and confirmed she was in the film. According to the information on the label, it was made by a company in Escondido.”

“Or ‘Escondildo,’ as we locals call it,” I muttered. “Yep, could be. But how do you know she’s still there?”

“I don’t,” he admitted, “but it’s the only lead I have.”

“OK. I’ll check out the company, see if I can find out where they’re filming, and we’ll figure out where to go from there.”

He reached into a pocket and pulled out a flash drive. “Here’s everything we have,” he said, handing it to me.

I took it from him and put it down on the table next to the photo, then asked, “How long are you here for?”

“As long as it takes.” 

“OK.” I finished my coffee and set the cup down. “Be right back.” I went into the spare bedroom that served as my office and printed out a copy of my standard contract. Back in the living room, I read it to Murdock.

“That’s acceptable,” he said, when I finished reading it. I handed him a pen and guided his hand to the signature line. After he signed, he pulled five folded $100 bills from his wallet and held them out to me. “Your retainer.”

“Thanks,” I told him, taking the bills.

He stood up and shook his cane to unfold it.

“Can I call you a cab, or drive you somewhere?”

He turned to face me. “No need. I’m staying nearby. After I got over the culture shock, I discovered I kind of like the vibe in Ocean Beach.”

“You mean it’s not like New York?” I asked, pretending to be surprised.

“You could say that.” He gave me that smile again before he turned and walked away. I enjoyed the view as he did so.

  
As you’ve probably figured out by now, my name is Mara MacKenzie, and I’m licensed as a private investigator by the State of California. Vital statistics: age 34, 5'4", 120 pounds (give or take), brown and blue, never married but came close a couple of times. I’m that rarity, a genuine San Diego native, although I grew up in the suburb of La Mesa to the east. As soon as I graduated from San Diego State with a degree in criminal justice, I escaped to O.B. and have been here ever since, long enough to consider myself a true “OBcean.” After college, I considered joining law enforcement but knew I could never hack the whole “taking orders” thing. Law school was another possibility, but I couldn’t stomach the thought of three more years of school. So I signed on with a firm of private investigators to get the training and hours needed for my license. As soon as it arrived in the mail, I was out of there. I hung up my shingle in O.B. and never looked back. It’s not as lucrative as working for a big outfit, but it suits me, especially when a hot blind dude shows up on my doorstep, looking to hire me.

  
It didn’t take long to track down the film company and the location where it was currently filming, in Escondido in inland North County. The center of the adult film industry was still in the San Fernando Valley, up in L.A., but a few companies moved south during the virus and never went back. “Avocado Films” was one of them. We’d never be able to get into the studio while they were shooting, but we could wait outside for Karen to come out when she was finished working – _if_ she was working. I called Murdock to fill him in on what I’d found out and explain the plan. He was on board, and we agreed to drive up the next afternoon, in hopes of catching Karen as she left.

When we arrived at the address of Avocado Films, it turned out to be a building in a nondescript industrial park. Basically what I expected. I parked in the lot nearest their building, and we settled down to wait. There wasn’t much conversation. At one point, I turned to Murdock and asked, “When you first came to see me, you said you thought Karen was in trouble.”

He nodded. “Yeah, I did.”

“Why?”

He frowned. “I don’t know. It’s hard to explain. I just had . . . a feeling.”

“You mean like a sixth sense?”

“Something like that. Or maybe a fifth sense, in my case.” He smiled.

We lapsed into silence again, until a half hour or so later, when a door opened on the side of the building. Three people came out, two men and a woman. I recognized the woman, a tall blonde. She had a haunted look that I hadn’t seen in the photo Murdock gave me.

“It’s her,” I whispered.

He got out of the car and stood next to it. Within seconds, Karen saw him and froze. “Matt!” she exclaimed. Then she started walking toward him, breaking into a run after covering half the distance between them. She stopped short a few feet from him. 

“Hey, Karen,” he said. I hope one day to see that same expression on a man’s face when he looks at me. (OK, I know Murdock wasn’t actually looking at her, but you know what I mean).

“Omigod, Matt,” she breathed, “is it really you?”

“It’s me.”

“But why are you here?”

“You.”

That single word seemed to break a dam somewhere inside her. She covered her face with her hands and burst into tears. As she did, her sleeves slipped down her arms, and I saw the tracks. Murdock was right: she was in trouble. Damn.

And there was another problem: we weren’t alone. The two men who came out of the building with Karen were walking toward us. They didn’t look happy. One of them was a 50-something who carried an extra twenty pounds or so packed into his dad jeans and T-shirt. What was left of his thinning gray hair was pulled back into a stringy pony tail. He was the one who spoke.

“What the fuck is this?” he demanded.

Karen stammered out a reply. “Oh, uh, Drew, this, this is my, um, friend, uh, Matt, you know, from New York.”

“What’s he doing here?”

“He came to see me.”

“I don’t think so,” Drew scoffed. “C’mon, time to go.”

The other man, younger, tattooed, and black-haired, stepped in front of Drew and grabbed Karen by the arm.

“Let go of me!” she screamed as he started to pull her back toward the building. She jerked her arm free and took off in the direction of my car, pursued by Drew’s young thug.

I was about to intervene, but I wasn’t quick enough. Murdock moved so fast that I still have trouble believing I actually saw what I saw. He leaped into the air and unleashed a kick that landed square in the center of the man’s chest. He crumpled to the ground with Murdock standing over him.

Then Murdock turned toward Karen. “You OK?” he asked.

She nodded.

“You can come with us, if you want,” he said.

“God, yes.”

“You’re not going anywhere, bitch!” Drew yelled. “I own you!”

“Shut up, asshole!” I yelled back.

We climbed into my car, and I drove away before Karen could change her mind or Drew could try to stop us. “You’ll be sorry, bitch!” Drew shouted after us. Apparently, he had a limited vocabulary. I opened the driver’s side window and gave him the finger.

Once we were well away, it occurred to me that Karen hadn’t seemed at all surprised at what Murdock had done. Clearly, there were things he hadn’t told me about himself. Maybe he really did have a fifth sense. It just wasn’t eyesight.

When we arrived back at my cottage in Ocean Beach, I offered Karen the bed (the fold-out couch, if we’re being strictly accurate) in my office for the night. She accepted. I grabbed beers from the fridge, and we sat outside on the patio as the sun set behind the ever-present marine layer.

My bottle of beer was half empty before I addressed Karen. “There’s something we need to talk about,” I told her. “I think you know what it is.”

“I do.”

“He got you hooked, didn’t he? Drew?”

“Yes.”

I glanced over at Murdock. The look on his face was unbearably sad, but not surprised. “You knew?” I asked him.

“I did,” he confirmed. I wanted to ask him how, but now was not the time.

“Do you want to kick it?” I asked Karen.

“Yes, more than anything.”

“Well,” I said, with more confidence than I felt, “you don’t have to do it alone. There are plenty of places around here. And you can get medical help to detox.”

“But I don’t have any money, or insurance,” Karen protested.

“Don’t worry about that,” Murdock said. “Foggy and I just settled a big case. I’m sure he’ll be OK with me using my share of our fee for this.”

Tears came to Karen’s eyes. “Oh, Foggy. How is he?” She sniffed.

“He’s doing good. He’ll be happy to know you’re safe.”

“I’ve missed you guys, both of you, _so_ much.” 

Murdock didn’t say anything, but he had that look on his face again.

That was all very warm and fuzzy, but we had a problem that was going to need attention, and soon. Karen was an addict who would be going into withdrawal sometime in the very near future.

“Are you going to be OK for tonight?” I asked her.

“I think so,” she said, her voice shaky. “I have some . . . stuff in my handbag. It should get me through the night.” Then she turned to Murdock. “You don’t have to do this, you know.”

He reached out and took her hand, the first time he’d touched her. “Let me be the judge of that, OK?” he said quietly.

  
Murdock and I got to work the next morning. I found a place (highly recommended by a former client) that could take Karen in a couple of days, and another former client supplied enough H to keep her from going into withdrawal until then. Murdock and I went with her when she checked in. I gasped when I saw the amount on the cashier’s check he handed over. Then he kissed her on the cheek, and she went inside. She’d be going through detox, followed by intensive therapy, for the first thirty days. 

Murdock and I went back to my place. I offered to let him camp out in my office, and he accepted. I usually prefer having my space to myself, but I didn’t mind having him around. For obvious reasons. Plus, he was neat (he had to be), and he made a killer guacamole. He even helped me out with one of my cases, while trying to keep on top of his own cases from a continent away. 

Over the course of a week, he told me a little bit more about himself, but he didn’t really open up. I got the sense he wasn’t close to many people, maybe only Karen and his law partner back in New York, Foggy. His life story could have been the plot of one of those “inspirational” movies they show on certain cable channels (not that I watch them): the son of a journeyman boxer, growing up to be a successful lawyer after being blinded at age nine, orphaned a year later, and raised in a Catholic orphanage (that must have been a barrel of laughs). I kept those thoughts to myself and simply commented that his dad would have been proud of him. “I hope so,” he said with a sad smile that almost broke my heart. I tried not to let it show, but I think he might have picked up on it. I never did learn anything more about that mysterious sixth (or fifth) sense he seemed to have.

After a week, he returned to New York – reluctantly. Karen finally convinced him, arguing that Foggy was being slammed at work and needed him more than she did. I have to hand it to her, she knew how to push his buttons. Apparently, “Foggy needs you” was one of them. (I’d like to meet this Foggy dude some day. The way Karen and Murdock talked about him, he must be pretty special). Murdock grumbled about it (more like growled, actually) but agreed to go. I drove him to the airport and went into the terminal with him, as far as the security checkpoint, to make sure he went.

He returned three weeks later. The day after Karen’s discharge from rehab, she and Murdock flew to New York together. He had found a place in the city where she could continue her recovery. I dropped them off at the airport and watched them walk into the terminal, arm in arm. I admired the view, one last time, until they were out of sight, then drove home to O.B.

**Author's Note:**

> Ocean Beach is a neighborhood in the City of San Diego. Some consider it the last outpost of hippiedom in the city. Escondido is a real place, but not a center of the porn industry; that part is totally made up. You might think “Avocado Films” is a shout-out to “avocados at law,” but it actually refers to the groves of avocado trees on the hillsides around the town of Fallbrook, north of Escondido. The shout-out to “avocados at law” is Matt’s guacamole.
> 
> In the comics, Karen moves to California and becomes a porn actress and an addict in the famous story, “Born Again,” by Frank Miller. I have used Karen’s predicament in “Born Again” as a way to get Matt to California in this very different story.


End file.
